Date of Rebirth: Prelude
"It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset." As the sun sets over Fastheld, casting long shadows and setting the sky and clouds ablaze with hues of orange and red, it does little to hide the desolation of that which was once Light's Reach. Though the township hardly covered the surface of the mesa upon which it was situated, the devastation that it has created more than makes up for that fact. Rubble covers the entire breadth of the elevated terrain, scattered across the torn and sundered landscape amidst the fine soot and red ash that blankets that region, occasionally swirling as a gust of winds causes the land to remember the death that stalked it in a maelstrom of fine cinders. The fissure from which the Ravager arose is of obvious note, torn across the south western reaches of the mesa like a great wound in the earth, bleeding shadow and darkness from the abyss within. The lacking attempts of abandoned rebuilding attempts and camps little the area, only adding to the sorry state that the tainted landmark exists in. No life can be found in this graveyard, sans that of a certain Price of the Blood who can be located on the eastern edge of the mesa, at the zenith of the only rise that links the top of the rise with the ground below. He is crouched in stance, looking across the wasteland without sound or movement, dressed in a black leather surcoat and equally black leather pants. It seems to be a fitting color, somehow - attire the mourns the fallen township, and those who were not quick enough to escape the carnage. The commemorative silence of the twice-abandoned landscape is broken gently by the low rumbling of hooves over dirt and stone. Steadily but without haste, the shape of horse and rider climbs from the east, each lurch and bounce echoed by huffing breaths of the tired mount. A second and third soul come to claim foot over the mesa - a path that both have tread countless times before. Communication is silent between the two - unspoken understanding superseding any urgency for control. The rider, draped in a splendid combination of silk and velvet, blends with the shadows as evenly as her horse, were it not for the three pieces of seraphite adorning her person - o'er the hand, o'er the heart, and o'er the wisdom of the brow. "You got my message then," purrs a calm and measured voice that seems out of place amidst the quiet of the forsaken landscape that reaches out in front of the speaker. It's not a question but rather a statement of fact, for if the Duchess had not received the message he refers to, she would not be here upon the edge of this shattered mesa. In following, the Prince takes a moment to reach down to the earth between his feet, scooping up a measure of fine dust and ash in his gloved palm, before letting it slide back out of his grasp and back upon the rock below once more. "You've no idea how long I've been awaiting *any* message," answers back an equally serene tone, though be it etched with a very fine dagger's point. "But yes...I perused it." The clip-clop of Umbrus's feet marches with dignified measure to halt behind the crouched wildcat-turned-dragon. A lash of the tail precedes a billowing sneeze and snort directed down at the other human. There. He'd done it. He'd taken her this far. Awoken from his slumber. Again. Roused and removed from the delightful smells of visiting mares long gone. Again. Driven through the eerie wood of death. Again. The ticking of doubtful clockwork within the horse's brain is all but audible as he stands rigidly there, staring pointedly aside. His right flank twitches twice. Get off. Rowena obliges, planting a little kiss along the ebony crest to give her thanks. The clink and rustle of assorted gear and clothing betrays her intentions and one leg is delicately removed from its precarious position and brought around to join its mate. "Have you found any old tools in your wanderings here? The old smithy insists his grandson left behind an awl and he simply /won't/ let it go." "I'm far beyond wandering now." answers the Wildland as he pushes himself back up to a standing posture, reserved resignation apparent upon his features as he finally turns to look upon the woman who is at once both his friend and his lover; that she's also long suffering and yet stubbornly enduring as well can only bring a smile to his features. "I imagine there's an awl around here somewhere, amidst the ash and bone of a city and people now lost to time and memory." There's something about his eyes that is different; the familiar ice-blue seems to have been replaced with far more intense color now, more like the dusty blue of seraphite than a real natural shade. The color of his hair also seems to have faded somehow, existing as more of a dark silver than the sandy hues which it once carried. But his smile is as genuine as ever, and his voice maintains that unyielding compassion that has seen him through life in the shadow of his older brother. Rowena stays herself atop the horse, legs dangling patiently over the side while her hands grip the saddle's edge a bit more tightly than before. The mossy green of her own gaze remains unchanged as it stares at what phenomenon of Light and Shadow have wrought upon her Serath, as do all features for that matter, at least externally. One cannot escape death unchanged entirely, she supposes, and musters a little smile, as tired as it might be, for his sake. "Then I'll tell Master Ironwood he can send his own scouting party should he wish. Though frankly I'd be just as content to buy the man another." A nervous chuckle is offered in the quip's wake and she finally diverts her gaze to follow that of Umbrus's. A faint trembling takes residence in her hands' vice-like grip and comes to emerge in her voice as she whispers to the horizon. "I think I'm beginning to better understand the confusion you've suffered...Many of us are, in fact." "We'll buy him a wagon load and then fill his smithy full of them." Serath muses, sounding half-serious for a moment, though the underscore of amusement at such a trivial desire clearly betrays him. "I doubt he'd want to see another awl for as long as he lives after that, which might do him some good, all told. Awl fixation is a little curious, to say the least." A hand is extended up to Rowena, offering to help her down from the sanctuary of her steed and onto the reality of the sundered land beneath her. "Confusion?" "What this all means, inside," Rowena replies, seemingly unphased by the humor. She takes hold firmly of the hand and then with only a moment's hesitation, leaps with faith into the abyss of soil and soot. Red slippers become instantly smudged with black, a sight to put a tear in any seamstress's eye. "The finding of something you never realized had been lost at all." Rowena continues to hold fast to the gloved hand for security against whatever despite her conquering of gravity's groundward pull. Buffering Rowena's unconventional dismount as much as he can as she takes her leap into his arms, Serath gives the Duchess a few moments to recompose herself before replying to her statement. "It sounds to me," he softly purrs, "That you've earned an equal amount of understanding *and* confusion." A slight pause follows, but only for a moment. "Now imagine that confusion extended tenfold, a hundred fold, and then being given only the slightest hint as to what you're supposed to do with it, and once you've done that... well, I hope you can understand why I've been away for quite a while." A soft smile follows, "It wasn't easy coming to terms with the whole "conduit of divine power" deal, you know. But, yes, Fastheld had too long maintained a loveless relationship with the Light. We knew that the relationship was good and that it was secure, and from that we became content. However, we didn't know what we were missing the love from that relationship because we'd long since forgotten what that was." "And now Fastheld knows, and - like those within the grasp of the Shadow, attempting to come to terms with what they have - it will take time for those of the Light to understand what they've remembered." "Or remember what it is they're supposed to remember," Rowena mutters and uses her other hand to snub the night's chill by readjusting the cloak. Umbrus shakes his back and limbs then noses about in the dirt for baby shoots and old roots. "I never envied you and I certainly don't now." And then there was silence once more. Slowly releasing the irritable tensions within, Rowena focuses her eyes' attentions beyond her captured ranger and into the shadow of the crater beyond. The tri-moon light casts interesting shapes over the pitted landscape and she lets her mind play for a moment. "They say that the envious are consumed by envy, just as iron is consumed by rust." Serath notes, offering a somewhat serious look to Rowena as he does so, "And I rather you never become consumed by rust, Rowena. Still, I need your help with something..." The sharp sincerity of his tone is soon replaced with something that is just as sincere, but almost whimsical. With a light tug of her still-held hand, the Prince gestures towards the desolation that the two stand within. "I once promised to make a deal with a Red Dragon that would see Light's Reach reborn. However, it turned out that the dragon in question was far too cunning, and that which I had offered in trade was instead obtained for free. In the end I ended up having to make /another/ trade to get back a few items which were better off in the hands of those who originally owned them." He makes an 'it's a long story' kind of face after that, a smile now prevailing upon his roguish visage. "I no longer think I require a red dragon to fulfil my promise to you, Rowena Mikin." Rowena stares with some puzzlement, glancing between the rubble and rogue. A dubious lift of her brow is offered in response. "For my own sanity, I'll ignore the bit about the drake and skip forward to said promise, but...from what? The crown's decree sent all the progress I'd made scattering back to their long-left homes in various corners of the realm. Any quarry shipments, lumber parties...everything has been brought to a halt and diminished. Shall we snap our fingers together and up it springs?" Not one to typically be so seemingly ungrateful, it can be noted in her defense, that the Duchess has been put under a few stressors lately, being sent backpedaling from progress just one of many. Still, her tone is realized by self and she lowers her eyes apologetically into the dirt. In a softer voice, she inquires "What is it you wish me to do?" "Well, a little faith would be a nice start." Serath teases, a knowing glimmer in his eyes suggesting that there is much that is unspoken. "And then maybe we'll be able to snap our fingers together and - oh, hey - there it springs! Well, perhaps not, but I'm serious about the faith part." The moment of light mirth aside, Serath's tone eventually recovers that calm and measured air about it that it previous held. "Sara'tharalax seems to think that we'll be able to ask the Light for a great boon, akin to what we accomplished with the Aegis. In regards to magnitude, this is far less than what we managed there, but the duality of the Light and the Shadow helped a great deal. It's not that the Light isn't capable of it alone, it's just that... well, the conduit is something that needs to be just as strong." The conduit. Namely, Serath Kahar. Still, an abrupt laugh breaks that somber mood. "Very well, hold on." He seems to be talking to someone else for a moment. "Sara would like me to tell you that she does not *think* this can be accomplished, but that she *knows* it can. Though it may seem only a foil to the Shadow at times, there is great power within the divinity of the Light. All she asks is that you do not doubt... and that I follow the same advice." "Easier said than performed, when one makes her living cutting things open, learning via touch and sight," Rowena sighs, stares bleakly into the vacant lot before them. "How sturdy is stone that's simply been 'made up' in comparison to the genuine thing? And even if the Light decides it's fitting to build some houses, how does it read a floor plan that's stashed away in my study?" Baffled, Rowena flaps her hands once at her sides. Clearly, the concept remains mostly lost on her. "Faith in the power instilled in hearts, the balance of things good and evil, the holiness of Light is one degree of abstract that I can easily manage and comprehend, but building solid *things* from nothingness? I...." A defeated huff is cast to the skies "will have to take your - her - word..s...for it." "No, Row: You'll *have* to trust me, and the Light, otherwise... well, you might not have a Prince at the end of it, and that will /really/ ruin my day." Again, dispite the grim nature of his words, a smile of reassurance is offered to his beloved Duchess. "When you're ready, just close your eyes, and let me know." Feeling the fight gone out of her, Rowena casts him a final look of solemnity, then blankets her vision from the outside world. It's an eerie place there, inside one's head. Watching colors of mysterious origin dance around the insides of your eyes, listening to the blood rushing through your ears, picking and sorting through the filings of thoughts that drift aimlessly through. And so, after what may seem an eternity, Rowena tosses the last of the doubt out and feeds her weakened faith with memories of the Light's prior blessings. Serath was still standing before her, after all, and that was without a doubt one hell of an accomplishment, right? The Aegis...the rift...all things were possible. A deep breath, then: "I want a ballroom and a place to store copies of my findings. An herb garden, a sister to the Tribunal Hall of Healing..." these and other murmurs on the wish list are uttered to fuel her thoughts with possibilities and the hope that these things can indeed come true. A hand reaches blindly out to him, beckoning. Serath merely nods in return, a smile of solidarity caressing his features as, with a squeeze of Rowena's hand in his own, his voice abruptly that of another. A strange, lilting voice that holds deep wisdom and the undercurrents of power within its tone. A voice as depthless as the voids of oblivion and as timeless as history itself. The unmistakable voice of a Sara'tharalax. "Then from the depths of a darkness that has cast a long shadow over the land and the people that once dwelled here, let us see if we can't make a spark of light blossom within the oblivion; and from that light may the shadow be cast aside, and the silver dawn extend to this final shaded corner of an realm that has only recently reawoken, struggling to remember that which it does not know it has forgotten." And then, without sound or warning, the world is consumed by a flare of perfect white... ---- ''Return to Season 6 (2007) Category:Logs